


Deals Made in Good Honor

by Author376



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Dwalin Adopts a Half-Elfling!, F/M, Gen, I shouldn't be allowed to write my own tags, Original Characters Here, but at least this one is finished, really - Freeform, shakes fist, the kink!meme has me again, you won't trick me this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:25:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author376/pseuds/Author376
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In return for being shown a place in the Blue Mountains where the wandering survivors of Erebor may settle Dwalin adopts the half-elven child of a human woman dying of old age. Shenanigans ensue.</p><p>Original Prompt: http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/5821.html?view=12535229#t12535229</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deals Made in Good Honor

“I told you what the deal was.” Dwalin kept his voice as low as possible, but still doubted he’d go unheard. With that in mind he turned back towards the center of the clearing. “Fleta, gut that and I’ll be right back to tote it for yea, alright?”

“Yes, Mister Dwalin.” The tall, spindly girl-child responded politely and pulled out the simple manmade belt knife she owned to do just that.

Leaving Fleta to gut the small deer she’d just brought down with a well-timed throw from the braided leather shepherd’s sling she kept tucked into her belt, Thorin led his king a fair ways away into the woods.

“You told me that in return for leading us to the abandoned iron mines we’re now settling you agreed to provide for a human woman’s bastard child until it was of age.” Thorin immediately began in Khuzdul, his sharp features still noticeably thin beneath his short beard after the long, hard winter they’d had wandering with the other refugees of Erebor, hissed. “That child isn’t human.”

“She’s half-human, if you’re worried about the local rabbit-eared buffoons looking for a stolen elfling.” Dwalin grumbled back before reaching up to run his hands over his bald head and the ridges left by the tattoos he’d had put there to cover up the embarrassment he still felt for having lost his hair. “Her mother kept her well-hid after the elf who sired her wandered off and she found herself with child.”

Thorin seemed to process that, and ran a hand wearily over his face while he did so. Dwalin didn’t blame him; it was absurd enough for any dwarf to take in a foundling child, but for one of Dwalin’s own history it was simply ludicrous. He was a warrior first, a smith second, and had never made any move to settle down. What did he know of even dwarven children?

“Dis is resting well.” Thorin finally said, his shoulders slumping slightly and the aggravation in his expression smoothing out as the King of Erebor – and to Dwalin he always would be, no matter where they wandered, and he’d take his axes to any who said otherwise – made up his mind. “Vili’s loss still grieves her and the boy, but settled in stone as we are the babe’s settling in her womb well and loosing that much fear helps her greatly… Our people owe you our thanks.”

“It’s nothing any of us would have done.” Dwalin maintained, refusing praise for a decision made out of desperation and practicality. “Just… well, the child’s mother is dead…”

“Old age?” Thorin, who’d had as much exposure to humans as Dwalin in their wanderings quickly came to the right conclusion.

“Aye, at _sixty-five_.” Dwalin shook his head at the insanity of human lifespans; now wonder they always tore down what they built with as little time as they had to learn to respect it. “The girl’s forty the past winter, her mother gave her the name, Fleta, and if nothing else she’s a fair shot with that sling.”

“Any contribution is appreciated.” Thorin echoed the bitter words of exile and then exhaled, turning to his cousin. “Dwalin, this should be my responsibility-.”

“I gave my word.” Dwalin grunted, shaking his head, and they both walked the rest of the way back to where the half-elven girl knelt, dutifully gutting the deer she’d brought down and watching both the dwarves who approached her with large, frightened, careful tobacco-smoke blue eyes. 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

By the time autumn had rolled around Dwalin wasn’t quite so daunted by the oath he’d given to the human crone. Fleta wasn’t a bad lass – he credited to her mother’s sense in keeping the elves from the girl – and once Thorin and he’d made it clear she was welcome she’d come out of her shell a bit. For all that she would never be pretty by dwarven standards, she had a cheerful disposition and was always willing to lend a hand as they carved rough, but adequate, quarters out of the stone of the Blue Mountains. They kept them close to the surface, though, and at a small enough distance from the mines that should any attack they could leave quickly.

Thorin was wise not to risk his people being trapped with certain death again in this foreign place. Even if it was better than their wanderings it was no home.

“Roast boar?” Dwalin sniffed appreciatively as he entered the small house he and his brother had claimed for their own. 

Thorin was off again, wandering with many of their craftsman in search of paying jobs amongst the humans to help get them through the winter but Dwalin had been left with the duty of guarding their people as Balin had been left with the duty to guide them. 

“Aye, laddie.” Balin smiled warmly from where he sat on one of the benches by their lone table, setting plates and tankards around. “The broadbeam brothers who settled here a week ago went hunting and found a whole sounder of them. They got most of them too.”

Inhaling deeply Dwalin noted another advantage of having the lass around. First was the fact that the age of Fleta’s mother had meant the girl was accustomed to housework and kept a tidy house wherever she went. The second was the pleasure of having anyone in their household who Balin could fuss over other than himself. Fleta also had a way with herbs that made her cooking nothing to sneer at; especially now that Dis and Gloin’s wife were teaching her dwarven recipes. 

“That’ll make everyone happy.” Dwalin felt his shoulders relax a bit. 

Running the guard with reduced numbers as many of their men went out to search for employment meant that with the mines in need of men there were few to hunt every day. Even with game being a fair sight easier to find here than in Dunland it was a blessing to eat well. Besides, he’d always liked ham.

As he put his weapons back on their pegs in the living room he came back to find the skinny child setting a great wooden trencher with a whole ham hock down in the center of the table and watched as she scurried back and forth setting bowls of potatoes and beans and a few meager winter greens out as well. 

Balin settled in, speaking of the doings of the mines and their people, his hopes for good trade in the next year or five without having to travel far, and tales of young Fili’s antics and everyone dug into their food. Dwalin couldn’t help smirking as he watched the careful and dainty way that Fleta always ate out of the corner of his eye. They’d tried to teach her that eating a meal heartily expressed admiration for it, but he supposed some things were just in the blood. 

Watching the way the girl carefully listened but didn’t attempt to interrupt and looking at their meager, but clean home Dwalin felt a well of affection for the girl. Half-elf though she might have been she was a hard worker and made no presumptions of anyone; least of all her own position. 

“C’mere, lass.” Dwalin said after the food was gone and the dishes cleared and they were all sitting in front of the fire. 

Fleta looked up from the reed-paper she made and could always be found drawing upon or practicing the letters in Common that Balin had taught her. Dwalin had been impressed that the girl, who was raised far too poor for parchment, had found a way past it. Especially considering that the paper she made by weaving and pressing reeds between flat stones was often finer than all but the vest vellum. Quietly and obediently, as she was want to be, the girl got up and walked over to where he sat in front of the fire in one of the two armchairs their home had acquired.

“Here, sit.” Dwalin nudged a footstool in front of where he sat and pushed his pipe into the corner of his mouth. “You can’t just keep tying hair as long as yours in a tail, girl. You’re an invitation to a cooking accident.”

If Balin looked at him in amusement as he pulled his own comb out of his pocket and set about taming the hip-length fall of inky black hair the girl sported into a plain braid, well, Dwalin wouldn’t give him the knock upside the head his older brother deserved as long as he kept his yap shut.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

“Fleta, you get your twiggy arse out of that tree this minute and back on good solid earth before I do something about it!” Dwalin roared up the tall fir tree, grinding his teeth and resisting the urge to stomp one of his feet.

Thorin had sworn he looked exactly like Dis when he did that, and then Dwalin’s _loyal friend_ and liege had laughed until he’d fallen on his royal arse. 

Behind Dwalin the guardsman trainees were quivering at his rage.

“Like what!?” The playful response, given by a laughing, musical voice, threatened to put a smile on Dwalin’s face.

He resisted the temptation as only a dwarf could. They’d had some “stragglers” wander in and join the settlement that winter. Dwarves of Erebor in the old days who’d abandoned Thror even before the grief that came to their people in Moria and settled elsewhere. Now their welcome was worn out in the white mountains and they’d come to Ered Luin in hopes of settling. 

Part of that group had been foolish enough to offer insult to Fleta, and Dwalin had left them with no doubt how well they regretted it. Unfortunately they’d also opened their big mouths and called her a “bastard half-elf”. Wise woman that Fleta’s mother had been the girl had never known the truth of her heritage and Dwalin had been forced to speak the truth of it. Thankfully Fleta had no curiosity about her origins, believing the wisdom that the elves would steal her and turn her against those who loved her. 

That said, once she’d found out the truth her dreams had become haunted by strange voices and several moons ago she’d confessed that she was being offered a choice; to take the life of men or the life of her father’s people. Not that she understood it or more than half-believed it. Dwalin hadn’t had to think twice on how to answer that one.

_“Remember your Mam, child.” He’d held her close as she shook, young and afraid and overwhelmed by so many strange happenings in such a short life. “Eru gave the humans so many children to make up for the shortness of their lives. Taking the choice of your father’s blood doesn’t mean you have to LIVE with the elves. It just means you’ll live as long as one.”_

With that settled Dwalin had to admit he hadn’t been _quite_ right. What Balin fondly called Fleta’s “fancies” had definitely taken a stronger hold of her. Once she wasn’t afraid of her place amongst them it had become obvious the girl liked to wander the hills, and Dwalin swore every gray hair in his beard was from the girl slipping off and going on a ramble without telling a soul. He’d put her in the forge just to keep better track of her and had been pleased when she’d shown a talent for it. Not that she had the strength yet for real work, but she had a delicate touch and a fine hand at linking mail. 

“In case you’ve failed to notice, lass, your Da’s got an axe!” Dwalin pointed out, threat implicit.

Even with his eyesight not being what it was fifty years before he could make out a flash of white teeth in an impertinent grin from amidst the boughs of the tree. Then the white of her teeth and the black of her hair seemed to vanish and a moment later his daughter in all but blood had swung twice around a bottom branch and landed soundlessly in front of him. Letting out a breath Dwalin fought to keep his glare in place as his daughter threw her skinny arms around his neck in a hug.

She was more than a head and shoulders taller than him now that she was fifty. Where in the name of Mahal had the time gone?!

“Da, you should hear what the tree was saying-.”

“Trees. Don’t. Talk.” Dwalin grunted firmly, nudging his daughter down the path in front of him. “I don’t care if you can understand ‘em now, not just hear ‘em – and no lip about it either! Or the birds – ravens don’t count – or any other creature you’ve been singing to.”

Fleta opened her mouth to argue and Dwalin pointed a finger firmly in her direction.

“Now, I’m busy with these reprobates, so get yourself back to Dis’ house and help her with the little ones, you hear me?”

“Yes, Da.” Fleta grinned and promptly took off running back towards the settlement, moving at a pace to make a pony weep in envy and not leaving a blade of grass bent in the process. 

Dwalin exhaled deeply and then turned around and let Grasper fly. The dwarf who’d been snickering into his beard gulped audibly as the axe quivered in the tree he’d been leaning against, not an inch from the tip of his nose and mustache. Feeling satisfied that he had the idiot’s attention again he set about repairing the damage to his training schedule.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

“Fili, if I have to come up there afterwards it’ll be bows in your hair till solstice!” Fleta’s indignant yell carried up very well from the tumbled bolders at the creek bed and Dwalin spared a chuckle and a smile at Dis.

The Princess of Durin’s line loathed doing laundry, and often enough let Fleta do it for her in exchange for sewing lessons and the like, but a cave in – thankfully a small one with no deaths – in one of the mines had led to everyone neglecting such duties to such an extent that all hands in the Durin family were on deck, as the human saying went. Dwalin, of course, had let his daughter wash his dirty things out, and Balin’s as well. As such he was now ostensibly ‘on guard’. In truth he was just enjoying the chance to watch Thorin kneeling beside a wash basin snarling at stains in his underwear.

Or, well, he had been until every adult present had stopped what they were doing to watch the sixty-year-old Fleta try to wrangle Dis’ twenty-five and twenty-year-old sons. Fili and Kili, of course, were having none of this. Both had spent the last twenty years delighting themselves by being as pesky as possible when in the care of Dwalin’s daughter.

“Can’t make me!” Fili sing-songed from the tiny crevice between rocks he’d forced himself into; just out of Fleta’s reach of course.

“I’ve got your brother!” Fleta yelled back, holding the squalling brunette aloft with a careful arm around his waist.

Kili, ham that he was, was squealing like a stuck pig and begging to be saved in the most obliging manner possible.

“You give him back!” Fili’s furious shout predictably followed and a moment later Fleta was flitting around the clearing, dancing just out of Fili’s reach and then sprinting ahead before running in circles around the blond dwarfling.

For his part Fili’s sturdy legs pistoned tirelessly as he waved his wooden axe at Dwalin’s daughter, threatened her with all manner of revenge from disembowelment to “Telling Uncle Thorin”. The latter being particularly amusing as Thorin had given up on his underpants and was now sitting back in the grass laughing a deeply as any of them at the childrens’ antics.

“Make me!” Fleta yelled once more, dancing just out of reach as Fili roared in anger and put on another – pointless – burst of speed. 

Kili obligingly switched back from giggling madly to begging for his big brother to save him. 

“It’s good to see the children happy.” Dis’ smiled as she finally took her brother’s clothes and began to properly take the stains in hand with some stronger soap.

Thorin grunted his agreement, seemingly stoic, but when Fili fell upon his lap and begged his uncle for help saving Kili from the evil Elf Witch Thorin was on his feet fast enough that he _almost_ caught Fleta on her next pass. Eventually, however, Kili tired of the game and Fleta valiantly faked terror at the sight of the ‘Great Dwarven King’ and then groveled for mercy very becomingly from Fili. Fili, in turn, only demanded a few cookies as weregild for his pain and suffering. He even remembered to share them with Kili _and_ his uncle this time.

“C’mere, lass.” Dwalin chuckled as Fleta wandered back over to him. “You’ve got your braids all in a tangle.”

Fleta sat obediently, cross legged and singing softly to herself some tune she’d learned from Bofur about maidens and taverns Dwalin would be skinning the miner for teaching his daughter soon enough, and Dwalin twined her hair into the two braids that the women of Fundin’s house wore. As he always did, however, he kept two wings of hair loose at the front to twist back and secure at the back of her neck and hide the delicately pointed ears that had become all the more prominent since she’d made her choice.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

He’d fretted about it, Dwalin truly had, but in the end his choice was clear. More elves were passing through Ered Luin than ever before to get to their port at the mouth of the Lhûn. Balin agreed; leaving Fleta behind carried far too many risks. Not only could those pointy-eared betrayers show up and try to steal his daughter away at any time if they saw her, but what if it came to battle? Their people were stable and prospered, but it was a tenuous prosperity at best. 

Though Dwalin’s eyes and sense told him she was barely grown and women were too precious to risk on such a venture Fleta would have to go with them to reclaim Erebor. 

“She’s old enough, and you’ve raised her well, Dwalin.” Thorin had laid one hand on his shoulder when Dwalin had told his king of his decision. “And little as I like taking any so young as her or my nephews… What choice do we have anyway?”

“Aye, cowards.” Dwalin hawked and spat into the dirt at the thought of those who’d refused to come help and cast a glance back at the hobbit they’d left sleeping.

The hobbit hadn’t been a bad sort, given the wizard had not told their host he was coming. Better he didn’t come anyway; they had enough innocents on this quest. For a minute he was tempted to go wake the techy little grocer up and ask if he knew of anyone who wanted a hand for the next year. Fleta did good work and this Shire looked a safe place… No, though, she’d never stay.

“Her eyes and ears’ll be a blessing, and she needs little enough sleep.” Dwalin sighed and nodded, looking over to where Fleta was readying the ponies, fussing at Fili and Kili to act their proper age, and tugging a bit awkwardly at her clothes.

That had been one relief. Wrapped in layers of traveling gear, a long tunic, and looser breeches tucked into her high – and unfortunately soft, he never did get her into proper boots – boots his daughter passed well for a Man. Or, well, a male amongst mankind as it went. As long as they kept her hood up and her hair twisted and rebraided into a short, heavy queue at the back of her neck she’d pass for a ‘he’. That kept one worry away, as Dwalin had learned that trusting a Man around anything female was folly.

There was nothing for it but to move on.

SSSSSSSSSSSSS

Dwalin had no more time than it took to be grateful that Fleta had been out gathering firewood and missed their nearly disastrous encounter with the trolls than wargs were upon them. He tried to keep his eyes on her but Fleta flight was what it was and a running battle worse yet and he lost sight of his daughter. When he caught sight of her again they had tumbled down a hole and the she seemed fine. 

Letting out a sigh of relief he nudged her back between Fili and Kili – a single glance from Dwalin told the boys that now was the time to make up for decades of Fleta’s fussing after and watching their safety – and he went up to stand beside his king.

By silent agreement, once the damned elven settlement came into view, Dwalin reache dup to pull her hood further down over her face and spread her cloak farther around her shoulders as Thorin hissed an order for them to keep the hobbit and Dwalin’s “son” at the center of their company.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSS

Fleta knew that her father had told her to stay in their rooms while the others went to dinner with the elves. She was fine with that. She wasn’t curious. Not in the least. 

Fleta just wanted a _bath_.

If she couldn’t ask for a bath from the elves – and she knew better than to try and speak with an elf, they’d surely figure things out Thorin and her Da were right about that – she still didn’t see the problem. After all, Rivendell was all over water and large rocks. There was surely some forgotten little nook somewhere that would leave her invisible from the elven buildings and paths but allow her a chance to bathe and wash her clothes.

There were a few close calls on the way, and it took a great deal of effort to go unnoticed, but Fleta patted herself on the back for managing it as she looked over her “bath”. A boulder long ago separated from the rock face had split as it tumbled and each side had come together to form a ‘L’shaped grotto protected on the two angled sides by the boulders and against the back by the cliff face. The final side was a series of stepping stones perfect for spreading her clothing out to dry. 

Happily Fleta stripped down to her skin, unbound her hair, and began to task of scrubbing her clothing and herself. 

Meanwhile Glorfindel, Lord of the Golden Flower of Gondolin, and war leader of Rivendell second only to Elrond himself was taking a shortcut from the stable to the hall. Personally he had no curiosity about the dwarves. He and Elrond’s twin sons had ridden out to investigate a band of Goblins that had come out of the Misty Mountains to raid one of the few small human settlements between Rivendell and the peaks of that mountain chain. The sheer amount of Goblin movement in the area was beginning to worry him.

As such Glorfindel was perhaps not paying as much mind as he usually did to his favorite shortcut. It was, even for an elf, not a very sure path for at one point it went from being as wide as his arm from wrist to elbow to being no more than the width of two fingers where it jutted out from the cliff. Normally this didn’t dismay him at all. He had good balance and that was where the path was at its lowest, barely ten feet above a peaceful little grotto separated by broken rocks and a split boulder from the swirling waters of the river.

It wasn’t until he looked down to check his footing that Glorfindel was aware that he wasn’t alone. At which point, his mind still half-engaged with thoughts of Goblins, he registered that he was staring down at the single most beautiful elf maiden – Arwen did not count for he thought of her as a child who begged for rides on Asfaloth still and Galadriel was very firmly taken and Celeborn remained jealous and tetchy after years of putting up with Celebrimbor’s little fixation – he’d ever seen in all his years on Aman and Arda.

Who just happened to be naked.

Well, not entirely, she was wearing a long length of Noldor-black hair like a cloak down her back.

Which, in turn, left everything in the front quite bare.

Glorfindel’s mind – or the part of it that was still functioning, for he’d quite forgotten about the Goblins – noted that she was rather well-endowed for an elf-maiden. Or at least for a Sindar; their women had always been terribly thin.

That and there was this little wink of gold and blue stone in her… was her…? Did… Confronted with the sight of something as odd and strangely exciting as this beautiful vision of Elven perfection wearing a _belly button ring_ Glorfindel quite forgot that he was no longer a young, brash, warrior in Turgon’s service and must now act with the age and dignity the Valar wished him to use to inspire hope in others.

Oh, and she was singing a bawdy tavern tune in a truly lovely voice.

As such Glorfindel of Rivendell could only do one thing; he pursed his lips and whistled loudly in deep admiration.

SSSSSSSSSSSS

“So, you’re going to sup with the dwarves.” Erestor drawled as he held a parchment out for his lord to sign.

“Would you at least let me get dressed?” Elrond grunted in annoyance as he shrugged into his outer robe. 

“You’ve got pants and a shirt on; that’s good enough. These need seeing to and if I know you you’ll be too busy sitting around, pretending not to laugh at whatever property damage the dwarves inflict while the rest of us recoil in horror at their behavior.” Erestor huffed. “You’ve already decided to help them, admit it.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.” Elrond’s expression was serene as he perused the document and then took it to the table in the center of his sleeping quarters and pressed his seal against the bottom.

“Saruman brought none of the cronies he’s begin to trail – and I find it stranger that a wizard would choose to consort with low men than with hobbits even – with him.” Erestor pointed out. “That means he must expect you to stop them from leaving. You’d have made plans to do so already if that were the case so, obviously, you’re diddling the white wizard and pretending your not.”

“Hmm.” Elrond hummed. “Interesting.” Then he held out his hand for the next paper as Erestor dropped the guise of annoyance he so often wore and huffed a laugh at his Lord’s sense of humor manifesting itself. Elrond was not surprised but was pleased when Erestor didn’t bring up the wisdom of allowing Saruman to think he had an ally in this when he did not.

The White Wizard was quick to anger, that is true, and had been more closed off since his move to Orthanc, but he was still an ally. If he would not see now that it was paramount to remove the dragon from Erebor before some worse threat coaxed it into fiery action Saruman would see it once it became apparent that Mithrandir was correct. It was simply a matter of Elrond himself and Galadriel giving the appearance of following the White Wizard’s lead long enough to satisfy his pride. Once the right path became obvious the White Wizard would be as eager as they were to quell the evil in Dol Goldur and see the dragon shriven of its life.

The biggest problem would be Thranduil. They would need his help and the stubborn arse held no fondness in his heart for someone raised by Kin-Slayers, and considered Galadriel the woman who kept his cousin under the cat’s paw. Nor was Elrond inclined to trust the poseur enough to tell him the full of things yet; he’d refused outside help for long enough in dealing with the darkness that had come to the Greenwood, what made Elrond think that he would wish to give aid to those he’d already abandoned once?

“Why is Glorfindel just perched on that ledge staring downward?” Erestor’s question routed Elrond from his thoughts and he looked out the window. 

Sure enough, Glorfindel, warrior of legend, was perched on the ledge he insisted on using as a shortcut to and from the stables. His eyes were wide enough that Elrond could see the blue of them from across the valley quite easily. He could also, very easily, see the missile that impacted with the revered elven warrior’s nose , caused him to lose his balance, and sent Glorfindel tumbling off of his ledge to land in the water with an almighty splash quite easily heard from Elrond’s balcony, where he and Erestor now stood watching the scene unfold.

“Am I wrong, Lord Elrond,” Erestor asked very seriously. “or did _Glorfindel_ just get knocked into the river by a well-thrown _bar of soap_.”

With an expression of serene dignity Elrond turned to his most senior counselor and librarian.

“See, I told you this would be fun.”

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

“You are in so much trouble young lady.” Dwalin reached back automatically to swat at Thorin even as the words left his mouth.

Predictably, even in the current dire situation, Thorin was already chuckling at how Dwalin sounded – and, yes, he knew how he sounded! - and dodging the blow. 

“I just wanted a bath, Da!” Fleta looked nearly in tears. 

“Of course, dear.” Balin said gently before turning to their healer. “Oin?”

“It’s a bad sprain, I’m afraid, she won’t be able to walk on it for a while.” Their healer pronounced as he firmly wrapped strips of cloth around Fleta’s left ankle. “How did it happen again?”

“An elf fell on me.” Fleta muttered darkly and Dwalin began to finger his axes, again.

“While you were bathing.” Thorin added, his hand going to Orcrist’s hilt. 

“Which is very unfortunate.” The entire Company spun to face the sound of Gandalf’s voice as the wizard, looking more exasperated than usual, stood in the doorway. “However, it is also unfortunate that your daughter, Dwalin, accidentally chose to bathe beneath a seldom used path to and from Rivendell’s stables.”

Fleta looked just miserable and embarrassed and Dwalin couldn’t take it anymore. Putting down Keeper he reached out and curled one arm protectively around his daugher’s shoulder and whispered soothing things into her still-damp hair. He’d known she was too young for this quest. He had _known_ he should have left her in Dis’ keeping. What good did it do to take her from the danger of the sea elves only to have her find greater danger here.

“More unfortunate, however, is where our quest stands.” Gandalf went on, his tone serious and the shadow he cast somehow larger and darker than a moment before. “There is to be a council and a wizard of my kind shall be there, and he is against you. You must be on your way by the time it is over or the adversity we face shall only grow greater.”

“We cannot leave _now_!” Gloin growled in indignation, gesturing to where Fleta’s bandaged foot projected from the blanket she was wrapped in. “One of our company cannot walk.”

“Then you shall have to make a decision.” Gandalf replied with the same urgency and left them in silence.

Thorin raked a hand over his face and Dwalin took a deep breath, looking between daughter and king, torn as he had never been in his life.

“Go on without me.” Fleta’s soft answer broke the quiet and it was a testament to the situation that no-one spoke out into the silence that followed.

What Dwalin wanted to do was clear; take his daughter and go back to the safety and bare prosperity of the Blue Mountains where – even if she could not love him – Dis would favor him with smiles now and then amongst the children’s antics. What his _duty_ was, however, was just as clear, and Dwalin would no more leave that behind than he would leave behind an arm or his beard.

“Aye, lass.” Dwalin swallowed and walked over to gently lean his forehead upon hers. “We shall, but first, however, we’re to have a talk.”

Gathering their things together as quickly and quietly as possible the dwarves all became as deaf as Oin to the quiet words passing between father and daughter. Before they left, though, Fili pressed a finely made dwarven knife into Fleta’s hand with detailed – and rather terrifying – instructions in how best to use it and Kili gave his playmate a long hug before the Company of Thorin Oakenshield slipped out of Rivendell unnoticed. 

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

“Balin, why did you hit your brother with his own hammer.” Thorin asked from his sickbed in what he thought was a very reasonable tone.

“I didn’t hit him hard, my king, just enough to calm him down a wee bit.” The white bearded dwarf smiled amiably and then reached down, picked Dwalin up off of the carpet of the King’s Chambers and propped him into a chair.

Balin even put a pillow behind Dwalin’s head, which Thorin thought was quite thoughtful. 

“What was in the letter from Fleta?” Thorin asked.

“Apparently Fleta has married and Dwalin is to be a grandfather in perhaps a year’s time.” Balin went on in that same reasonable tone.

“Ah.” Thorin breathed.

“Yes, precisely.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Quite.”

“I’m going back to sleep.” Thorin decided, firmly. “Make sure my nephews do the same and don’t let your brother start a war with any elves until I wake up.”

“A fine order.” Balin agreed amiably and then, once his king was asleep, sighed deeply. 

Thankfully the next letter said that the Princess Dis was also on her way, and it had expressed to Balin a complete end in her patience in waiting for Dwalin to make his move. Balin quickly penned a letter in return and sent it out with a raven. Dis meeting Dwalin in Rivendell and demanding his hand in marriage should do quite nicely as far as a distraction went, and if all else failed there was always the hammer approach again.

If nothing else, the latter was quite satisfying.

**Author's Note:**

> Guh... I've got to stay off of that meme, it is eating my brain!


End file.
